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fliotographic 

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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historicai  Microreproductions  Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  historiquf 

1980 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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fi 


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T~/  This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

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d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m6thode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 


6 


A  WINTER    HOLIDAY 


If? 


'i) 


By  bliss   carman 

LOW  TIDE  ON   GRAND    PRt     jjJi.as 

BEHIND  THE  ARRAS.    A  Book 

of  the  Unseen i .  25 

BALLADS    OF    LOST    HAVEN 

A  Book  of  the  Sea     ....        1.25 

BY  THE  AURELIAN  WALL.  A 

Book  of  Elegies 1.25 

With  RICHARD  HOVFY 

SONGS   FROM  VAGABONDIA    $1.00 
MORE   SONGS   FROM   VAGA- 
BONDIA   i.oo 

Small,  Maynard  £sf  Company 
Boston 


HH 


T 


WINTER   HOLIDAY 


BLISS  CARMAN 


'H 


■,5 


Boston 

Small,  Maynard  &  Company 

1899 


wT^^^^^rmm 


4^.9?9 


? 


Copyright^  l8gg,  by 

Small,  Matnard  &  Company 

(incoxforatkd) 


THE  DNIVKRUTY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A. 


J 


3 


m 


To  T.  B.  M. 


Scltuate,  Massachusetts 
October,  1899 


■■ 


Contents 

Page 

December  in  Scituate 3 

Winter  at  Tortoise  Shell     ...  8 

Bahaman  . .  15 

Flying  Fish       ...  * %$ 

In  Bay  Street 31 

Migrants 35 

White  Nassau 38 


A  Winter    Holiday 


KsassiB 


/( 


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T 


A  Winter  Holiday 


DECEMBER  IN  SCITUATE 

Under  a  hill  in  Scituate, 
Where  sleep  four  hundred  men  of  Kent, 
My  friend  one  bobolincolned  June 
Set  up  his  rooftree  of  content. 

Content  for  not  too  long,  of  course. 
Since  painter's  eye  makes  rover's  heart. 
And  the  next  turning  of  the  road 
May  cheapen  the  last  touch  of  art. 

Yet  also,  since  the  world  is  wide. 
And  noon's  face  never  twice  the  same. 
Why  not  sit  down  and  let  the  sun. 
That  artist  careless  of  his  fame. 

Exhibit  to  our  eyes,  off-hard. 
As  mood  may  dictate  and  time  serve. 
His  precious,  perishable  scraps 
Of  fleetmg  color,  melting  curve  ? 

3 


1 


I 


i    I 


A  Winter  Holiday 


And  while  he  shifts  them  all  too  soon. 
Make  vivid  note  of  this  and  that. 
Careful  of  nothing  but  to  keep 
The  beauties  we  most  marvel  at. 


Selective  merely,  bent  to  save 
The  sheer  delirium  of  the  eye. 
Which  best  may  solace  or  rejoice 
Some  fellow-rover  by  and  by  ; 


That  stumbling  on  it,  he  exclfum, 

"What  mounting  sea-smoke!  What  a  blue  !** 

And  at  the  glory  we  beheld. 

His  smouldering  joy  may  kindle  too. 

Merely  selective  ?     Bring  me  back, 
Ferbatim  from  the  lecture  hall. 
Your  notes  of  So-and-so's  discourse  ; 
The  ^st  and  substance  are  not  all. 


The  unconscious  hand  betrays  to  me 
What  listener  it  was  took  heed, 
Eagei  or  slovenly  or  prim  ; 
A  written  character  indeed  ! 


December  in  Scituate 

Much  more  in  painting  ;  every  stroke 
That  weaves  the  very  sunset's  ply. 
Luminous,  palpitant,  reveals 
How  throbbed  the  heart  behind  the  eye ; 

How  hand  was  but  the  cunning  dwarf 
Of  spirit,  his  triumphant  lord 
Marching  in  Nature's  pageantry. 
Elated  in  the  vast  accord. 


Art  is  a  rubric  for  d'e  soul, 

Man's  comment  en  the  book  of  earth. 

The  spellborn  human  summary 

Which  gives  that  common  volume  worth. 


K^ 


Y\ 


So  at  the  pictures  of  my  friend,  — 
His  marginal  remarks,  as  'twere,  — 
One  cries  not  only,  **  What  a  blue !  " 
But,  **  What  a  human  heart  beat  here ! " 


And  now,  ten  minutes  from  the  train. 
Over  the  right-hand  easy  swell. 
We  catch  the  sparkle  of  the  sea 
And  the  green  roof  of  Tortoise  Shell. 

5 


• 


I 


r'^r'r^www'% 


If      ) 


1 


A  Winter  Holiday 


(He  guessed  from  slipshod  excellence 
What  fable  to  his  craft  applied. 
The  tortoise  for  his  monitor. 
And  Cur  tarn  cito  for  his  guide.) 

Here  is  the  slanting  open  field. 
Where  billow  upon  billow  rolls 
The  sea  of  daisies  in  the  sun. 
When  June  brings  back  the  orioles. 


It 

-I 


I  i 


All  summer  here  the  crooning  winds 
Are  cradled  in  the  rocking  dunes. 
Till  they,  full  height  and  burly  grown. 
Go  seaward  and  forget  their  croons. 

And  out  of  the  Canadian  north 
Comes  winter  like  a  huge  gray  gnome. 
To  blanket  the  red  dunes  with  snow 
And  muffle  the  green  sea  with  foam. 

I  could  sit  here  all  day  and  watch 
The  seas  at  battle  smoke  and  wade. 
And  in  the  cold  night  wake  to  hear 
The  booming  of  their  cannonade. 

6 


December  in  Scituate 


Then  smiling  turn  to  sleq)  and  say, 
<'  In  vain  dark's  banners  are  unfurled  ; 
That  ceaseless  roll  is  God's  tattoo 
Upon  the  round  drum  of  the  world." 

And  waking  find  without  surprise 
The  first  sun  in  a  week  of  storm. 
The  southward  eaves  begin  to  drip. 
And  the  faint  Marshfield  hills  look  warm ; 

The  brushwood  all  a  purple  mist ; 
The  blue  sea  creaming  on  the  shore  ; 
As  if  the  year  in  his  last  days 
Had  not  a  sorrow  to  deplore. 

Then  evening  by  the  fire  of  logs. 
With  some  old  song  or  some  new  book  ; 
Our  Lady  Nicotine  to  share 
Our  single  bliss ;  while  seaward,  look,  — 


Orion  mounting  peacefiil  guard 

Over  our  brother's  new-made  tent. 

Under  a  hill  in  Scituate 

Where  sleep  so  sound  those  men  of  Kent. 

7 


i)    \ 


A  Winter  Holiday 


'       V 


■i 

i 
\ 


¥ 


WINTER  AT  TORTOISE   SHELL 

**  What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead  1 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head." 

But  as  I  read,  that  couplet  seems 
The  merest  metaphor  of  dreams,  — 

A  parable  from  Arcady 
Refuted  by  this  wintry  sea. 

The  summer  was  so  long  ago, 
I  hardly  can  believe  it  so. 

Did  we  once  really  live  o-  idoors. 
With  leafy  walls  and  grassy  floors. 

Through  sultry  morns  and  dreamy  noons 
And  red  October  in  the  dunes. 

With  butterflies  and  bees  and  things 
That  roamed  the  air  on  roseleaf  wings  ? 


^< 


Winter  at  Tortoise  Shell 


There's  not  a  ^eaf  on  any  bough 
To  prove  the  truth  of  summer  now  ; 

There 's  not  an  apple  left  on  high 
To  bear  the  red  sun  company. 

The  sun  himself  is  gone  away, 
A  vagabond  since  yesterday. 

And  left  the  maniac  wind  to  moan 
Through  his  deserted  house  alone. 

Over  the  hills  we  watched  him  forth 
From  the  low  lodges  of  the  North ; 

And  then  a  hand  we  did  not  know 
Dropped  the  tent-curtain  of  the  snow. 

This  morning  all  outdoors  is  gray 
And  bleak  as  dead  Siberia. 

But  what  is  that  to  lucky  me  ? 
Who  would  not  love  captivity. 

Where  safe  beneath  their  Tortoise  Shell 
The  Lady  and  the  Tortoise  dwell  ? 

9 


I 


,•/ 


A  Winter  Holiday 


I 


1 1' 


■I     !l/ 


il 


The  Tortoise  is  the  Lady's  son  ; 
He  makes  procrastination 

A  fine  art  in  this  hurrying  age 

Of  grudging  work  and  greedy  wage. 

An  open  air  impressionist. 

He  swims  his  landscape  in  a  mist. 

And  likes  to  paint  his  shadows  blue. 
If  it  is  all  the  same  to  you. 

If  not,  he  does  not  call  you  blind ; 
He  waits  for  you  to  change  your  mind. 

His  cunning  knows  how  color  lies 
Eluding  the  untutored  eyes. 

Perhaps  within  a  year  or  two 
You  may  believe  his  pictures  true. 

The  Tortoise,  for  a  pseudonym. 
Is  very  suitable  to  him. 

At  Tortoise  Shell  the  rafters  green 
Mimic  a  shady  orchard  screen, 

10 


Winter  at  Tortoise  Shell 


The  kindly  half-light  of  the  leaves. 
And  June  songs  running  round  the  eaves. 

The  walls  are  hung  with  tapestries 
Of  gold  flowers  bending  to  the  breeze. 

And  pdntings,  drenched  in  light  and  sun. 
Of  Scituate  shore  and  Norman  town,  — 

A  mute,  unfading  fairyland. 

The  glad  work  of  a  wizard  hand,  — 

A  small  bright  summer  world  of  art 
The  winter  cherishes  at  heart. 

Look,  through  the  window,  where  the  seas, 
A  million  strong,  ride  in  with  ease ! 

The  mad  white  stallions  in  stampede. 
This  is  your  wintry  world,  indeed. 

But  summertime  and  gladness  dwell 
Under  the  roof  of  Tortoise  Shell. 

Color,  imperishably  fair. 
Is  mistress  of  the  seasons  there. 

II 


A  Winter  Holiday 


And,  ah,  to-night  the  Gallaghers 
Will  come  in  all  their  mitts  and  furs. 

Across  the  fields  to  visit  us. 
Then  Boston  urbs  may  envy  rus  ! 

We  Ml  let  the  hooting  blizzard  shout ; 
We  *11  pull  the  little  table  out ; 

And  Andrew  Usher,  ever  blessed. 
Shall  comfort  us  beneath  the  vest. 

So  trim  the  light,  and  build  the  fire ; 
Bring  out  your  oldest^  sweetest  briar. 

For  half  an  hour,  if  you  please. 
We  *11  listen  to  The  Seven  Seas  / 

Or  Mr.  Gallagher  will  sing  — 
An  opera  or  anything  — 

About  the  Duke  of  Seven  Dials, 
About  his  Dolly  and  her  wiles. 

Then  we  will  sit,  but  not  for  tea. 
Around  the  smooth  mahogany. 

It 


winter  at  Tortoise  Shell 


And  watch  while  houses  full  of  kings 
Are  overthrown  by  knaves  and  things  ; 

And  hear  the  pleasant  clicking  noise 
Of  triple-colored  ivories. 

And  Time  may  learn  another  trick 
To  better  his  arithmetic. 

When  wise  content  subtracts  a  notch 
For  fuming  weed  and  foaming  Scotch. 

To-morrow,  by  the  early  train. 
Light-hearted  mirth  will  come  again 

To  race  across-lots  with  a  crew 
Of  St.  Bernards,  —  contagious  Lou. 

Who  would  not  quit,  for  joys  like  these. 
All  idle  Southern  vagrancies. 

By  purple  cove  and  creamy  beach. 
And  gold  fruit  hung  within  the  reach  ? 

Since  friendship  is  a  thing  that  grows 
To  sturdy  height  in  Northern  snows, 

«3 


A  Winter  Holiday 


Who  would  not  choose  December  weather. 
Where  love  and  cold  thrive  well  together. 

And  bide  his  days,  content  to  dwell 
Under  the  eaves  of  Tortoise  Shell  ? 


-.3SSMiL:ji!iiB!i:£MiJfni'tmnHnamiii\ui\\u^mmmmmmft»t 


Bahaman 


6AHAMAN 

In  the  crowd  that  thronged  the  pierhead, 
come  to  see  their  friends  take  ship 

For  new  ventures  in  seafaring, 
when  the  hawsers  were  let  slip 

And  we  swung  out  in  the  current, 
with  good-byes  on  every  lip. 

Midst  the  waving  caps  and  kisses, 
as  we  dropped  down  with  the  tide 

And  the  faces  blurred  and  faded, 
last  of  all  your  hand  I  spied 

Signalling,  Farewell ;  Good  fortune  ! 
then  my  heart  rose  up  and  cried, 

"  While  the  world  iiolds  one  such  comrade, 

whose  sweet  durable  regard 
Would  so  speed  my  safe  departure, 

lest  home-leaving  should  be  hard. 
What  care  I  who  keeps  the  ferry, 

whether  Charon  or  Cunard  1  ** 


1/ 


'^m    i^ 


A  Winter  Holiday 


Then  we  cleared  the  bar,  and  laid  her 
on  the  course,  the  thousand  miles 

From  the  Hook  to  the  Bahamas, 
from  midwinter  to  the  isles 

Where  frost  never  laid  a  finger, 
and  eternal  summer  smiles. 

Three  days  through  the  surly  storm -beat, 
while  the  surf-heads  threshed  and  flew. 

And  the  rolling  mountains  thundered 
to  the  trample  of  the  screw. 

The  black  liner  heaved  and  scuffled 
and  strained  on,  as  if  she  knew. 

On  the  fourth,  the  round  blue  morning 
sparkled  there,  all  light  and  breeze. 

Clean  and  tenuous  as  a  bubble 
blown  from  two  immensities, 

Shot  and  colored  with  sheer  sunlight 
and  the  rtiznc  of  those  seas. 

In  that  bright  new  world  of  wonder, 

it  was  life  enough  to  laze 
All  day  underneath  the  awnings, 

and  through  half-shut  eyes  to  gaze 
At  the  marvel  of  the  sea-blue ; 

ani  I  faltered  for  a  phrase 
i6 


A. 


Bahaman 


Should  half  give  you  the  impression, 
tell  you  how  the  very  tint 

Justified  your  finest  daring, 
as  if  Nature  gave  the  hint, 

**  Plodders,  see  Imagination 
set  his  pallet  without  stint !  " 

Cobalt,  gobelin,  and  azure, 
turquoise,  sapphire,  indigo. 

Changing  from  the  s  >ectral  bluish 
of  a  shadow  upon  snow 

To  the  deep  of  Canton  china,  — 
one  unfathomable  glow. 

And  the  flying  fish,  —  to  sec  them 

in  a  scurry  lift  and  flee. 
Silvery  as  the  foam  they  sprang  from, 

fragile  people  of  the  sea. 
Whom  their  heart's  great  aspiration 

for  a  moment  had  set  free. 

From  the  dim  and  cloudy  ocean, 
thunder-centred,  rosy-verged. 

At  the  lord  sun's  Sursum  Cor  da, 
as  implicit  impulse  urged. 

Frail  as  vapor,  fine  as  music, 

these  bright  spirit-things  emerged ; 
%  17 


I 


-'".J.r^W.'SBf-.l.^!- 


^'^'''•r^mimFmm 


11 


11 


A  Winter  Holiday 


Like  those  flocks  of  small  white  snowbirds 

we  have  seen  start  up  before 
Our  brisk  walk  in  winter  weather 

by  the  snowy  Scituate  shore ; 
And  the  tiny  shining  sea-folk 

brought  you  back  to  me  once  more. 

So  we  ran  down  Abaco ; 

and  passing  that  tall  sentinel 
Black  against  the  sundown,  sighted, 

as  the  sudden  twilight  fell, 
Nassau  light ;  and  the  warm  darkness 

breathed  on  us  from  breeze  and  swell. 

Stand-by  bell  and  stop  of  engine ; 

clank  of  anchor  going  down ; 
And  we  *re  riding  in  the  roadstead 

off  a  twinkling-lighted  town. 
Low  dark  shore  with  boom  of  breakers 

and  white  beach  the  palm-trees  crown. 

In  the  soft  wash  of  the  sea  air, 
on  the  long  swing  of  the  tide. 

Here  for  once  the  dream  came  true, 
the  voyage  ended  close  beside 

The  Hesperides  in  moonlight 
on  mid-ocean  where  they  ride. 
i8 


^ 


Bahaman 


And  those  Hesperidian  joy-lands 
were  not  strange  to  you  and  me. 

Just  beyond  the  lost  horizon, 
every  time  we  looked  to  sea 

From  Testudo,  there  they  floated, 
looming  plain  as  plain  could  be. 


Who  believed  us  ?     "  Myth  and  fable 

are  a  science  in  our  time.** 
"  Never  saw  the  sea  that  color.** 

"  Never  heard  of  fuch  a  rhyme.** 
Well,  we  *ve  proved  it,  prince  of  idlers,  - 

knowledge  wrong  and  faith  sublime. 

Right  were  you  to  follow  fancy, 
give  the  vaguer  instinct  room 

In  a  heaven  of  clear  color. 

Where  the  spirit  might  assume 

All  her  elemental  beauty, 
past  the  fact  of  sky  or  bloom. 

Paint  the  vision,  not  the  view,  — 
the  touch  that  bids  the  sense  good-bye. 

Lifting  spirit  at  a  bound 

beyond  the  frontiers  of  the  eye. 

To  suburb  unguessed  dominions 
of  the  soul*s  credulity. 
19 


J 


I 


'.\> 


\  II 


1 


A  Winter  Holiday 


Never  yet  was  painter,  poet, 

born  content  with  things  that  are,  — 
Must  divine  from  every  beauty 

other  beauties  greater  far. 
Till  the  arc  of  truth  be  circled, 

and  her  lantern  blaze,  a  star. 

This  alone  is  art's  ambition, 
to  arrest  with  form  and  hue 

Dominant  ungrasped  ideals, 

known  to  credence,  hid  from  view. 

In  a  mimic  of  creation,  — 
To  the  life,  yet  fairer  too,  — 

Where  the  soul  may  take  her  pleasure, 
contemplate  perfection's  plan. 

And  returning  bring  the  tidings 
of  his  heritage  to  man,  — 

News  of  continents  uncharted 
she  has  stood  tiptoe  to  scan. 

So  she  fires  his  gorgeous  fancy 
with  a  cadence,  with  a  line. 

Till  the  artist  wakes  within  him, 
and  the  toiler  grows  divine. 

Shaping  the  rough  world  about  him 
nearer  to  some  fair  design. 
ao 


Bahaman 


Every  heart  must  have  its  Indies,  — 

an  inheritance  unclaimed 
In  the  unsubstantial  treasure 

of  a  province  never  named. 
Loved  and  longed  for  through  a  lifetime, 

dull,  laborious,  and  unfamed. 

Never  wholly  disillusioned. 

Spiritus,  read,  hares  sit 
Patria  quce  tristia  nescit,  -i 

This  alone  the  great  king  writ 
0*er  the  tomb  of  her  he  c\  -ished 

in  this  fair  world  she  must  quit. 

Love  in  one  farewell  forever, 

taking  counsel  to  implore 
Best  of  human  benedictions 

on  its  dead,  could  ask  no  more. 
The  heart's  country  for  a  dwelling, 

this  at  last  is  all  our  lore. 

But  the  fairies  at  your  cradle 
gave  you  craft  to  build  a  home 

In  the  wide  bright  world  of  color, 
with  the  cunning  of  a  gnome  ; 

Blessed  you  so  above  your  fellows 
of  the  tribe  that  still  must  roam. 
ai 


..^'..V'V'/^^'S:;--  -':^VJ. 


A  Winter  Holiday 


Still  across  the  world  they  go, 
tormented  by  a  strange  unrest. 

And  the  unabiding  spirit 

knocks  forever  at  their  breast. 

Bidding  them  away  to  fortune 
in  some  undiscovered  West ; 

While  at  home  you  sit  and  call 
the  Orient  up  at  your  command. 

Master  of  the  iris  seas 

and  Prospero  of  the  purple  land. 

Listen,  here  was  one  world-corner 
matched  the  cunning  of  your  hand. 

Not,  my  friend,  since  we  were  children^ 
and  all  wonder- tales  were  true,  — 

Jason,  Hengest,  Hiawatha, 
fairy  prince  or  pirate  crew,  — 

Was  there  ever  such  a  landing 
in  a  country  strange  and  new 

Up  the  harbor  where  there  gathered, 
fought  and  revelled  many  a  year. 

Swarthy  Spaniard,  lost  Lucayan, 
Loyalist,  and  Buccaneer, 

**  Once  upon  a  time  **  was  now, 
and  "far  across  the  sea  "  was  here. 


mK 


Bahaman 


Tropic  moonlight,  in  great  floods 
and  fathoms  pouring  through  the  trees 

On  a  ground  as  white  as  sea-froth 
its  fantastic  traceries. 

While  the  poincianas,  rustling 

like  the  rain,  moved  in  the  breeze. 

Showed  a  city,  coral-streeted, 

melting  in  the  mellow  shine. 
Built  of  creamstone  and  enchantment, 

fairy  work  in  every  line. 
In  a  velvet  atmosphere 

that  bids  the  heart  her  haste  resign. 

Thanks  to  Julian  Hospitator, 

saint  of  travellers  by  sea. 
Roving  minstrels  and  all  boatmen,  — 

just  such  vagabonds  as  we,  — 
On  the  shaded  wharf  we  landed, 

rich  in  leisure,  hale  and  free. 

What  more  would  you  for  God's  creatures, 

but  the  little  tide  of  sleep  ? 
In  a  clean  white  room  I  wakened, 

saw  the  careless  sunlight  peep 
Through  the  roses  at  the  window, 

lay  and  listened  to  the  creep 

•J 


'S^ 


A  Winter  Holiday 


Of  the  soft  wind  in  the  shutters, 
heard  the  palm-tops  stirring  high. 

And  that  strange  mysterious  shuffle 
of  the  slipshod  foot  go  by. 

In  a  world  all  glad  with  color, 
gladdest  of  all  things  was  I ; 

In  a  quiet  convent  garden, 

tranquil  as  the  day  is  long. 
Here  to  sit  without  intrusion 

of  the  world  or  strife  or  wrong,  — 
Watch  the  lizards  chase  each  other, 

and  the  green  bird  make  his  song ; 

Warmed  and  freshened,  lulled  yet  quickened 

in  that  Paradisal  air. 
Motherly  and  uncapricious, 

healing  every  hurt  or  care. 
Wooing  body,  mind,  and  spirit 

firmly  back  to  strong  and  fair  ; 

By  the  Angelus  reminded, 

silence  waits  the  touch  of  sound. 

As  the  soul  waits  her  awaking 
to  some  Gloria  profound; 

Till  the  mighty  Southern  Cross 
is  lighted  at  the  day's  last  bound. 


.  f 


r 


Bahaman 


And  if  ever  your  feir  fortune 

make  you  good  Saint  Vincent's  guest. 
At  his  door  take  leave  of  trouble, 

welcomed  to  his  decent  rest. 
Of  his  ordered  peace  partaker, 

by  his  solace  healed  and  blessed; 

Where  this  flowered  cloister  garden, 
hidden  from  the  passing  view. 

Lies  behind  its  yellow  walls 

in  prayer  the  holy  hours  through  ; 

And  beyond,  that  fairy  harbor, 
floored  in  malachite  and  blue. 

In  ihat  old  white-streeted  city 
gladness  has  her  way  at  last ; 

Under  burdens  finely  poised, 
and  with  a  freedom  unsurpassed. 

Move  the  naked-footed  bearers 
in  the  blue  day  deep  and  vast. 

This  is  Bay  Street  broad  and  low-built, 

basking  in  its  quiet  trade  ; 
Here  the  sponging  fleet  is  anchored  ; 

here  shell  trinkets  are  displayed ; 
Here  the  cable  news  is  posted  daily  ; 

here  the  market 's  made, 

»5 


I 


^ 


-_.n_ 


A  Winter  Holiday 


With  its  oranges  from  Andros, 

heaps  of  yam  and  tamarind. 
Red-juiced  shadducks  from  the  Current, 

ripened  in  the  long  trade-wind. 
Gaudy  fish  from  their  sea-gardens, 

yellow-tailed  and  azure-finned. 

Here  a  group  of  diving  boys 

in  bronze  and  ivory,  bright  and  slim. 
Sparkling  copper  in  the  high  noon, 

dripping  loin-cloth,  polished  limb. 
Poised  a  moment  and  then  plunged 

in  that  deep  daylight  green  and  dim. 

Here  the  great  rich  Spanish  laurels 
spread  across  the  public  square 

Their  dense  solemn  shade ;  and  near  by, 
half  within  the  open  glare. 

Mannerly  in  their  clean  cottons, 
knots  of  blacks  are  waiting  there 

By  the  court-house,  where  a  magistrate 

is  hearing  cases  through. 
Dealing  justice  prompt  and  level, 

as  the  sturdy  English  do,  — 
One  more  tent-peg  of  the  Empire, 

holding  that  great  shelter  true. 
%6 


I 


^m 


Bahaman 


Last  the  picture  from  the  town's  end, 
palmed  and  foam-fringed  through  the  cane, 

Where  the  gorgeous  sunset  yellows 
pour  aloft  and  spill  and  stain 

The  pure  amethystine  sea 

and  far  faint  islands  of  the  main. 

Loveliest  of  the  Lucayas, 

peace  be  yours  till  time  be  done ! 
In  the  gray  North  1  shall  see  you, 

with  your  white  streets  in  the  sun. 
Old  pink  walls  and  purple  gateways, 

where  the  lizards  bask  and  run. 

Where  the  great  hibiscus  blossoms 
in  their  scarlet  loll  and  glow. 

And  the  idling  gay  bandannas 

through  the  hot  noons  come  and  go. 

While  the  ever  sti/ring  sea-wind 
sways  the  palm- tops  to  and  fro. 

Far  from  stress  and  storm  forever, 

,  dream  behind  your  jalousies. 
While  the  long  white  lines  of  breakers 

crumble  on  your  reefs  and  keys. 
And  the  crimson  oleanders 

bum  against  the  peacock  seas. 

*7 


T 


A  Winter  Holiday 


.   FLYING   FISH 

Where  the  Southern  liners  go. 
In  the  push  of  the  purple  seas. 
When  sky  and  ocean  merge 
Their  blue  immensities, 

A  creature  novel  and  fine 
Will  break  from  the  foam  and  play. 
Swift  as  a  leaf  on  the  wind. 
Part  of  the  light  and  spray. 

Will  scud  like  a  gust  of  snow. 
Silver  diaphanous  things. 
As  if,  when  the  sun  gave  will. 
The  sea  for  his  part  gave  wings. 

For  aeons  the  Titan  deep 
Forged  and  fashioned  and  framed. 
In  the  great  water-mills. 
Forms  that  no  man  has  named. 
a8 


i 


«pa«i 


f 


Flying  Fish 


With  hammer  of  thunderous  seas. 
With  smooth  attrition  of  tides. 
Shaping  each  joint  and  valve. 
Putting  the  heart  in  their  sides. 

Blindly  he  labored  and  slow. 
With  patience  ungrudging  and  vast. 
Moulding  the  marvels  he  wrought 
Nearer  some  purpose  at  last. 

Not  his  own.    Those  creatures  of  his 
Were  endowed  with  an  alien  spark. 
And  a  hint  of  groping  mind 
That  made  for  an  unseen  mark. 

For  part  was  the  stroke  of  force. 
Fortuitous,  blind,  and  fell. 
And  part  was  the  breath  of  soul 
Inhabiting  film  and  cell. 

Finer  and  frailer  they  grew ; 
Must  dare  and  be  glad  and  aspire. 
Out  of  the  nether  gloom 
Into  the  pale  sea-fire. 

Out  of  the  pale  sea-day 
Into  the  sparkle  and  air, 

29 


J 


PT"*^ 


«■   ^i^^ 


I] 


A  Winter  Holiday 


Quitting  the  elder  home 

For  the  venture  bright  and  rare. 


Ah,  Silver-fin,  you  too 
Must  follow  the  faint  ahoy 
Over  the  welter  of  life 
To  radiant  moments  of  joy  I 


I    T 


" 


mt 


mpvp 


r 


In  Bay  Street 


n-, 


I? 


<< 


«( 


« 


«c 


<( 


IN   BAY  STREET 

What  do  you  sell,  John  Camplejohn, 
In  Bay  Street  by  the  sea  ?  " 
Oh,  turtle  shell  is  what  I  sell. 
In  great  variety : 

Trinkets  and  combs  and  rosaries. 

All  keepsakes  fr9m  the  sea ; 

'T  is  choose  and  buy  what  takes  the  eye. 

In  such  a  treasury.  *  * 

*T  is  none  of  these,  John  Camplejohn, 
Though  curious  they  be. 
But  something  more  I  'm  looking  for. 
In  Bay  Street  by  the  sea. 

Where  can  I  buy  the  magic  charm 
Of  the  Bahaman  sea. 
That  fills  mankind  with  peace  of  mind 
And  soul's  felicity  ? 

3  31 


' 


-IJB- 


i^r 


wm^lf^m 


m 


llKi 


! 


A  Winter  Holiday 


'*  Now,   what  do  you  sell,  John  Cample- 
john. 
In  Bay  Street  by  the  sea. 
Tinged  with  that  true  and  native  blue 
Of  lapis  lazuli  ? 

*«  Look  from  your  door,  and  tell  me  now 
The  color  of  the  sea. 
Where  can  I  buy  that  wondrous  dye. 
And  take  it  home  with  me  ? 

"  And  where  can  I  buy  that  rustling  sound. 
In  this  city  by  the  sea. 
Of  the  plumy  palms  in  their  high  blue 

calms ; 
Or  the  stately  poise  and  free 

**  Of  the  bearers  who  go  up  and  down. 
Silent  as  mystery. 
Burden  on  head,  with  naked  tread. 
In  the  white  streets  by  the  sea  ? 

"And  where  can   I   buy,  John   Camplc- 
john. 
In  Bay  Street  by  the  sea. 
The  sunlight's  fall  on  the  old  pink  wall. 
Or  the  gold  of  the  orange-tree  ?  ** 

3» 


In  Bay  Street 


**  Ah,  that  is  more  than  I  *ve  heard  tell 
In  Bay  Street  by  the  sea. 
Since  I  began,  my  roving  man, 
A  trafficker  to  be. 

**  As  sure  as  I  *m  John  Camplejohn, 
And  Bay  Street 's  by  the  sea. 
Those  things  for  gold  have  not  been  sold. 
Within  my  memory. 

"But   what   would   you   give,  my   roving 

man 
From  countries  over-sea. 
For  the  things  you  name,  the  life  of  the 

same. 
And  the  power  to  bid  them  be  ?  ** 

'*  I  *d  give  my  hand,  John  Camplejohn, 
In  Bay  Street  by  the  sea. 
For  the  smallest  dower  of  that  dear  power 
To  paint  the  things  I  see.** 

*'  My  roving  man,  I  never  heard. 
On  any  land  or  sea 
Under  the  sun,  of  any  one 
Could  sell  that  power  to  thee.*' 

3  33 


■TW^ 


■mr 


-"»- 


1 1 


m 


U 


A  Winter  Holiday 


*'  *T  is  sorry  news,  John  Camplejohn, 
If  this  be  destiny. 

That  every  mart  should  know  that  art; 
Yet  none  can  sell  it  me. 

"  But  look  you,  here 's  the  grace  of  God 
There  *s  neither  price  nor  fee. 
Duty  nor  toll,  that  can  control 
The  power  to  love  and  see. 


ct 


To  each  his  luck,  John  Camplejohn, 
Say  I,     And  as  for  me. 
Give  me  the  pay  of  an  idle  day 
In  Bay  Street  by  the  sea.** 


34 


mm 


^  '■■ 


Migrants 


MIGRANTS 

Hello,  whom  have  we  here 
Under  the  orange-trees. 
Where  the  old  convent  wall 
Looks  to  the  turquoise  seas  ? 

In  his  jacket  of  olive  green 
He  slips  from  bough  to  bough. 
With  a  familiar  air 
No  venue  could  disavow. 

Good-day  to  you,  quiet  sir ! 
We  have  been  friends  before. 
When  lilacs  were  in  bloom 
By  the  lovely  Scituate  shore. 


When  the  surly  hordes  of  snow 
Came  down  on  the  trains  of  the  wind. 
Two  sojourners,  it  seems. 
Were  of  a  single  mind. 

35 


[I'i 


.  I  I 

It 


A  Winter  Holiday- 


Both  from  the  storm  and  gray. 
The  stress  of  the  northern  year. 
Seeking  the  peace  of  the  world. 
Found  tranquillity  here. 


Here  where  there  is  no  haste. 
Lead  we,  each  in  his  way, 
Undistracted  a  while. 
The  slow  sweet  life  of  a  day. 


t 


Busy,  contented,  and  shy. 
Through  the  green  shade  you  go  ; 
So  unobtrusive  and  fair 
A  mien  few  mortals  know. 


It  needs  not  the  task  be  hard. 
Nor  the  achievement  sublime. 
If  only  the  soul  be  great. 
Free  from  the  fever  of  time. 


And  your  glad  being  confirms 
The  ancient  Bonum  est 
Nos  hie  esse  of  earth. 
With  serene,  unanxious  zest, 

36 


\  L 


•fm 


> 


Migrants 

Whether  far  North  you  fare. 
When  too  brief  spring  once  more 
Visits  the  stone-walled  fields 
Beside  the  Scituate  shore^ 

Or  here  in  an  endless  June 
Under  the  orange-trees. 
Where  the  old  convent  wall 
Looks  to  the  turquoise  seas. 


'S 


37 


"I  I  iMiuuimmmnmimmmmmmmmmmimmmmmmsM. 


r 


A  Winte'       jliday 


i^ 


» 


WHITE  NASSAU 

There  is  fog  upon  the  river,  there  is  mirk 

upon  the  town ; 
You  can  hear  the  groping  ferries  as  they  hoot 

each  other  down  ; 
From  the  Battery  to  Harlem  there  *s  seven 

miles  of  slush. 
Through  looming  granite  canyons  of  glitter, 

noise,  and  rush. 

Are  you  sick  of  phones  and  tickers  and 
crazing  cable  gongs. 

Of  the  theatres,  the  hansoms,  and  the  breath- 
less Broadway  throngs. 

Of  Flouret*s  and  the  Waldorf  and  the  chilly, 
drizzly  Park, 

When  there  *s  hardly  any  morning  and  five 
o'clock  is  dark  ? 

I  know  where  there  *s  a  city,  whose  streets 

are  white  and  clean. 
And  sea-blue  morning  loiters  by  walls  where 

roses  lean, 

38 


I  i.mm.:,.imit,.':m^X,... 


White  Nassau 


And  quiet  dwells  ;  that's  Nassau,  beside  her 

creaming  key. 
The  queen  of  the  Lucayas  in  the  blue  Baha- 

man  sea. 

She 's  ringed  with  surf  and  coral,  she  *s 
crowned  with  sun  and  palm  ; 

She  has  the  old-world  leisure,  the  regal 
tropic  calm ; 

The  trade  winds  fan  her  forehead ;  in  ever- 
lasting June 

She  reigns  from  deep  verandas  above  her 
blue  lagoon. 

She  has  had  many  suitors, —  Spaniard   and 

Buccaneer,  — 
Who  roistered  for  her  beauty  and  spilt  their 

blood  for  her  ; 
But  none  has  dared  molest  her,    since  the 

Loyalist  Deveaux 
Went  down  from  Carolina  a  hundred  years 

ago. 

Umnodern,    undistracted,    by    grassy    ramp 

and  fort. 
In  decency  and  order  she  holds  her  modest 

court ; 

39 


\h 


A  Winter  Holiday 


She  seems  to  have  forgotten  rapine  and  greed 

and  strife. 
In  that  unaging  gladness  and  dignity  of  life. 

Through  streets  as  smooth  as  asphalt  and 
white  as  bleaching  shell. 

Where  the  slip-shod  heel  is  happy  and  the 
naked  foot  goes  well. 

In  their  gaudy  cotton  kerchiefs,  with  sway- 
ing hips  and  free. 

Go  her  black  folk  in  the  morning  to  the 
market  of  the  sea. 


Into  her  bright  sea-gardens  the  flushing  tide- 
gates  lead. 

Where  fins  of  chrome  and  scarlet  loll  in  the 
lifting  weed  ; 

With  the  long  sea-draft  behind  them,  through 
luring  coral  groves 

The  shiny  water-people  go  by  in  painted 
droves. 

Under  her  old  pink  gateways,  where  Time 

a  moment  turns. 
Where  hang  the  orange  lanterns  and  the  red 

hibiscus  burns, 

40 


i 


V- 


White  Nassau 


Live  the  harmless  merry  lizards,  quicksilver 

in  the  sun. 
Or  still  as  any  image  with  their  shadow  on 

a  stone. 

Through  the  lemon-trees  at  leisure  a  tiny 
olive  bird 

Moves  all  day  long  and  utters  his  wise  as- 
suring word ;  * 

While  up  in  their  blue  chantry  murmur  the 
solemn  palms. 

At  their  litanies  of  joyance,  their  ancient 
ceaseless  psalms. 

There  in  the  endless   sunlight,  within  the 

surPs  low  sound. 
Peace  tarries  for  a  lifetime   at  doorways  un- 

renowned ; 
And  a  velvet  air  goes  breathing  across  the 

sea-girt  land. 
Till  the  sense  begins  to  waken  and  the  soul 

to  understand. 

There  *s  a  pier  in  the  East  River,  where  a 

black  Ward  Liner  lies. 
With   her    wheezy    donkey-engines    taking 

cargo  and  supplies ; 

4« 


JCM»- 


fl 


ll  .> 


i 


w 


i. 


A  Winter  Holiday 


She  will  clear  the  Hook  to-morrow  for  the 

Indies  of  the  West, 
For  the  lovely  white  girl  city  in  the   Islands 

of  the  Blest. 

She  Ml  front  the  riding  winter  on  the  gray 

Atlantic  seas. 
And  thunder  through  the  surf-heads  till  her 

funnels  crust'  and  freeze ; 
She  *11   grapple  the  Southeaster,  the  Thing 

without  a  Mind, 
Till   she    drops  him,   mad  and   monstrous, 

with  the  light  ship  far  behind. 

Then  out  into  a  morning  all  summer  warmth 
and  blue  ! 

By  the  breathing  of  her  pistons,  by  the  pur- 
ring of  the  screw. 

By  the  springy  dip  and  tremor  as  she  rises, 
you  can  tell 

Her  heart  is  light  and  easy  as  she  meets 
the  lazy  swell. 

With  the  flying  fish    before    her,    and  the 

white  wake  running  aft. 
Her    smoke-wreath    hanging   idle,    without 

breeze  enough  for  draft, 

4* 


mmmmmmmmmmmmmm 


■ 


White  Nassau 


She  will  travel  fair  and  steady,  and  in  the 

afternoon 
Run  down  the  floating  palm-tops  where  lift 

the  Isles  of  June. 

With  the  low  boom  of  breakers  for  her  only 

signal  gun. 
She  will  anchor  ofl^  the  harbor  when  her 

thousand  miles  are  done. 
And  there's  my  love,   white   Nassau,   girt 

with  her  foaming  key. 
The   queen    of  the    Lucayas   in    the    blue 

Bahaman  sea  1 


43 


I 


This  first  edition  0/ A  Winter  Holiday 
is  printed  for  Smalls  Maynard  ?jf 
Company  at  The  Vnt'versity  Press  in 
Cambridge^   U.  S.  A.,   No'vember^   i8gg 


